Shut Up
by Garmonbozia
Summary: At the age of eighteen, for as long as he could bear it, Sherlock decided to take the hint. [A one shot, in 221Bs. And if I make one more reference to The Smiths, Morrissey will probably hunt me down and kill me...]


_June 30__th__ 1998_

In the last three days, on ten separate occasions and by seven different people, I've been told to shut up. Getting told to shut up isn't an event, it happens all the time. But it doesn't usually happen ten times in three days. Mycroft's up to one a day. It's not on. I can take being told to shut up, I'm used to it, but it's getting… It's just getting beyond a joke.

There comes a time when you have to do something about it. It's not like I'm hurt or it even means anything to me, but it's _wrong_. People can't keep getting away with this.

And while I realize that what is to follow might seem like a sulk, you have to understand that's not true. This is my _stand_. It's a protest. And it's an experiment in the effectiveness of silence and the social impact of absolute withdrawal and alright, yes, fine, I'm sulking.

If you can't be honest in your own bloody notes, what chance have you? I'm sulking. It's a silly, childish word for it, but that's what it is. I make no apology for that.

You see, as I have been told to shut up, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Not another word until… Until somebody asks me why. Because… Well, just because.

_July 1__st__ 1998_

Twenty-four hours of silence, give or take. Nobody's said anything yet. That's alright, I suppose. Haven't had much in the way of contact, very few opportunities for anyone to notice anything wrong, so really, there's no surprise or danger here, no cause to _worry_ or anything. It's because it's summer; just hanging around the house and really there's nobody here sometimes, I can go hours and not bump into anybody, and really, when you consider it properly, there's no cause for concern

The only person I even really spoke to today was the bloody gardener. Well, no, not 'spoke to'. You know what I mean.

I was walking. He was cutting the grass on that brutal great tractor of his and he stopped, to shout over the roar of the engine, that I was pale, and should be out getting sun (note, if you will, I was in the garden at the time). This said, and me offering no smart or interesting answer, he seemed to think he was… _getting through_? Is that the phrase? Getting through to me, and proceeded to ask why I wasn't off somewhere finding myself a girlfriend for the holidays.

Speak to him? What exactly would you like me to _say_ to that line of questioning?

Anyway, I can't take too much sun. I just burn.

_July 2__nd__ 1998_

Had to sit through lunch with Mother. Her idea. This seemed promising: surely if it was her idea she had noticed some deficiency and wished to discuss it with me. Any time it's happened before, that's been the purpose. It's always been, _You really must make an effort with the other boys at school_, or_ P.E. is still dragging your averages down_, something like that.

In fact, it only occurred to me an hour ago, long, long after lunch, that somebody more emotional than me might have hoped, might have dared to dream, that the woman had finally realized she's been systematically ignoring and avoiding me since I came home from that bloody place and might have been doing something to try and rectify that. Obviously that's just been the effects of a long and disappointing day, and all the frustration of remaining wordless. There was so much that just _begged _to be said.

But Mother did all the talking. It _started_ with a question, started with "What do you intend to do with your summer?" But after that, Mother did all the talking. Sighed and said, "Honestly, Sherlock, you must give some thought to what your place in this world will be."

_Yes_, I wanted to say, and I really must try and make an effort with the other boys…

_July 3__rd__ 1998_

Dear God, they don't care if I live or _die_, none of them! Four days. Four days without a word and no one has questioned it _once_. They just go on and on with idle, _idiot_ conversation, and getting the facts all wrong, of course, and I resist. Barely, and with superhuman energy wasted on it, but I resist, and nobody _notices_. They don't care.

This was to be an experiment, right? Well, here's the conclusion; they simply could not give less of a toss whether I continue to exist or not. It's not a _nice_ conclusion to have to draw about the people around you, but what choice do I have? That's where the facts are pointing, isn't it? Can't deny the bloody facts when they're staring you in the face.

This has gone so far beyond a sulk now. This is something else. This is something more like… like _vengeance_. It's righteous. What I wouldn't give right now for a piece of faulty jet engine to crush me in my bed. For the quiet, inexplicable dispatch of sleep apnea. To hell with it, give me the knife and I'll do it myself. Just to see, just to find out if, should I die, would it strike them then, oh, he's been a bit quiet, lately. Just a bloody bit…

_July 4__th__ 1998_

Alright, so obviously there was a certain loss of objectivity in yesterday's notes. I ranted. It was neither efficient nor scientific. Nor, in fact, did it show the correct _gratitude_. I'm being afforded an almost certainly unique opportunity for study here. It's a pity I must be my own unfortunate subject, but here's my chance to investigate how a person could go through a perfectly viable life without any meaningful social engagement.

But, like I said, only until somebody asks me why.

I'll have to become much more stringent about how I go about the whole experiment. Not _speaking_ is one thing, but absolute soundlessness is necessary. It's the only way to be absolutely sure I'm not giving any false signals, the only way to control all the factors. So from here on out (however long it goes on), not only will I be speechless, but there will no laughter, no noises of assent or dissent or interest, not so much as a hiss should I stub my toe. It has to be done.

I'll be able to do it. Even my current silence has become so much easier since I began. I find I hardly hear anymore the things I would want to correct or argue against. I've felt myself to be under rather less pressure, since this experiment began.

_July 5__th__ 1998_

It's not a real experiment if you don't really push the variables to their limits. That's why I had to go into town today. Had to be around people, force interaction, or else what's the point? I now believe smiling is a factor that needs to be considered; certainly it seems to be enough for most staff in the retail sector. Would the possible removal of basic common courtesies of this kind from my social repertoire constitute an ethical dilemma? Probably not; mild rudeness hardly places any of the parties in danger.

I should do it. The only reason I'm clinging to 'common courtesy' is because it was such a bloody difficult thing to learn in the first place. It just never came naturally to me, this business of saying thank you to someone who is already being paid to perform the task. People get so upset around such pointless eccentricities as 'please' and 'thank you' – whether I say that or not will have _no_ effect whatsoever on whether you actually do it, only on your attitude towards it. And your attitude doesn't bother me.

But it was something Mother told me to learn. I'm afraid if I allow myself to lapse I'll start to forget. Forget to smile. Forget eye contact. Forget please and thank you. You're welcome. Hello. Bye.

_July 6__th__ 1998_

I did not go out again today; the mere thought of the bland, thoughtless attentions of servers and shopgirls left me stuck in bed. It's nothing to worry about. If I were depressed it would be an issue, but I'm not. I am recharging, in order to continue the experiment with renewed energy. This is the kind of thing you can only test out once. I don't want anything to make a mess of it. That's why I'm still in bed.

Listened to Mother go about her business, and then go out at about three o'clock. Drifted off from a while, but it's nothing to worry about; it's just lethargy. The longer you lie still the harder it is to move again. It's fine. The oversleeping is nothing to worry about

She probably thought I'd already gone out, been about my business. It's not that she didn't _notice_ my absence; she just thinks more of me than to believe I could still be lying in bed at this time. It's a compliment, rather than anything else. Just because I could hear her moving about doesn't mean she could hear the music from my stereo. She might have thought I was working and not wanted to disturb me. Though I don't generally work to the tune of _Sheila Take A _bloody_ Bow_…

_July 7th 1998_

Alina, this year's housemaid, is in trouble. Her English is far from perfect, so she seems a little baffled with what Mother is telling her, has been quite determinedly telling her for about five minutes now. I'll be honest, even if she were Samuel Johnson she might be a little baffled.

See, she didn't hang up on the man from Cambridge. It's not even all that important that she did; he called back and was quite happy to do so and even then it was only about halls of bloody residence in the end. But he happened to mention he'd been hung up on earlier in the day and now Alina's getting it in the neck. Wasn't her, though. There should be no great reveal in telling you it was me. What else could I do? I had to answer it; it wouldn't stop ringing. I don't know where Alina was at that point. It was driving me mad. All the sounds are so loud. I'd never noticed before, but all the little incidental sounds in a silent house and a silent mind are so loud. But then once he spoke I realized there was nothing left for me but to hang up.

But I don't think it's a sacking offence. In the name of the experiment, Alina can be baffled.

_July 8__th__ 1998_

This is the ninth day since I shut up. Only ten minutes ago I stopped and realized that's probably a little bit strange. Back when the endeavour was less research, more protest, I had expected it to last no more than three or four days. After all, the condition then as now was that the moment somebody asks what's the matter or why I'm not talking, it ends.

I must be doing something wrong. I must be giving off some sort of signal, something that makes them shy away from asking, something that gives the impression of my being a-okay. I really must get stricter with myself. I do tend to murmur to myself. Not because I'm mourning human interaction, not because it's all stuck up inside my head, just the way that people do, as they go about their lives. It's totally normal. I saw it all the time at school. Mother doesn't do it. I've never asked her but I'm almost certain she believes it to be indicative of a disorganized mind.

Nevertheless, even minor infringements like that one need to be stopped. Never know who's listening, hearing. Never know what you might be giving up as you murmur in front of the mirror, sat at the desk, standing in front of the microwave waiting for it to _bing_….

_July 9__th__ 1998_

This doesn't happen to human beings. They don't just carry on existing and still manage to vanish entirely all at once. Yes, you hear horror stories; bodies not found until the smell becomes overpowering or until the cats have had their fill. It _happens_, but it shouldn't happen here, to me, now, when I'm still surrounded by people who know me.

I understand that I'm losing my objectivity again, but how can I really keep telling myself this is some sort of ridiculous experiment when all I'm really learning is how little I mean in the whole great scope of things? I never knew, until I shut up. I always thought the things I was saying were interesting or important but it never was. It never was. Nobody has noticed that I've stopped saying them, so it never was. And you have to ask yourself, don't you, when it comes to this, what does that leave you with? I never needed anything else. I was defined by what I knew and sharing what I knew with other people and it didn't… It never… Was it really just me and my big mouth, all these years?

The gardener didn't even _try_ to speak to me today

Is that what I've always been? Bigmouth? Nothing more interesting or important after all. Just Bigmouth?

_July 10__th__ 1998_

I've been thinking about it. People just don't want to know. It's nothing to do with my being a bigmouth, or an irritation. No, they're just happy as they are. It's the same everywhere, y'know. I was an idiot not to have spotted this before. It's London all over again.

And it's not as if what happened in London was inconsequential. A boy _died_ after all, and there was this whole huge fact in the case they were overlooking. A fact which turned a tragedy into a murder and so they ignored it. They said it wasn't important and they wouldn't listen to me. I thought at the time it was just because I was young, but that's not true. They just didn't want to know. It just made everything too complicated for them.

This, all of it, it's just London all over again. People don't like me challenging them. If I've shut up, _obviously_ they're not going to question it. Dear God, they might start me talking again, and we wouldn't want that now, would we? No, it's a welcome break, isn't it, me shutting up? Oh, long may it last.

This is much easier to take now. They hate me, but I'm the one in the right. It's not because I've got a big mouth. It never has been

_July 11__th__ 1998_

Today was not an easy day. The so-called experiment continues, though it has been proven completely without purpose. I might as well see it through now. Not wanting to _bother_ any of those who share my habitation, I went out. Having no real purpose in this either, I ended up in the park. Started smoking again, first time in a year; school made it really too difficult. Summer makes it far too easy.

While sitting idly on a bench, was tapped on the shoulder. It was a girl, asking for a light. She asked in sign language. Irrationally, I believed she knew something of my silence, then realized it was probably because of my headphones. But it was close, so I gave her a light. Then was surprised to find she slid over the back of the bench and sat next to me. Even more surprised to have the headphone nearest her flipped off off my ear so she could press hers to it.

An hour ago she abandoned me to go and buy a bag of chips.

In the interests of a full and honest record, she wasn't mute. She was just forward. I know she wasn't mute because I heard her singing along, _If it's not love, then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb…_

_July 12__th__ 1998_

Mycroft came up from London today. I don't know why. The first I knew of it was when he walked through the door. He always looks as though he wants to ruffle my hair. Sometimes I will him on to do it. I don't know how I'd react, you see. Run away? Cry out? Break his wrist?...

This would be an end to it. Even if it was done in a snide way, even if it was Mycroft who noticed and Mother who cut in, _Yes, you _have_ been rather quiet lately_… Even that. I'd take that as an end to it. I've gone beyond being choosy how it ends.

But you see, Mycroft's a bright rising star, a viable member of society, and just so much easier to talk to. And he does so like to tell all, when it comes to himself. He lies, you know. He makes it sound better than it is. But I could tell, he's finding it stressful. London smog's not agreeing with those delicate country lungs, and he made sure he was well-rested last night, but it was his first proper night's sleep in ages. This was written all over him. But he lied, and Mother accepted it. People accept if you tell them what they want to hear, whatever the truth may be.

_July 13__th__ 1998_

Mother asked Mycroft to talk to me about… _something_. For one, it was plain that he'd been asked and felt like he couldn't say no. He was uncomfortable, but pushing on regardless. For another, I listened to him for at least fifteen minutes and never really got whatever point he was trying to put across. Something about me and university and _apparently_ (news to me) there are going to be other people there? Well, I never would have signed up for the whole sordid business if I'd thought it was a group activity…

On a more comforting note, I have given up entirely the pretence that this is any sort of 'experiment'. Now I'm just waiting it out. It's a little bleak, but much better than deceiving myself.

But today was also the first in a while I've had trouble keeping this up. Especially when Mycroft started talking about heading back to London. He was trying to tell me it was because of his work commitments (apologetically, as if I must believe the real reason was more to do with me). All I could think of, all I could get in my head, even though I was fully aware of just who I was speaking to, was _Bloody take me with you_. If I could have spoken I would have begged.

_July 14__th__ 1998_

I stayed in bed again. This time it's okay because this time I'm not pretending it's okay. It's a problem. It's definitely a problem. I haven't even gotten up to eat. This morning it started because I had an awful dream. I never dream, but I dreamt last night. I dreamt I got up and went downstairs for breakfast and Alina was dead in the kitchen. She'd been killed, but she was still warm. So I went upstairs again to find Mother and I was only moments late, but she had been killed too. The gardener was dead on the lawn. So I ran into town to look for help and everywhere I went it had happened again. All the shopkeepers, the café cook, the woman in the post office, all murdered. The girl from the bench, back at the bench, bleeding into a bag of chips. Everywhere, all over the world, I was a moment behind this incredibly prolific murderer, a world of cooling corpses. So when I woke up I didn't go looking for breakfast. Which is utterly ridiculous, of course, and if anything the better reaction would have been to go and check that nobody _had_ been murdered, but I didn't, I stayed in bed, and listened until I heard them all get up. I'm still in bed.

_July 15__th__ 1998_

Mother keeps sighing at me. But she hasn't asked any questions yet, so that doesn't count. I know I said I wasn't being choosy, but that would just be stupid. But at least she's noticed that something is wrong, thank God. Now just to get her to _say_ something.

Well, no, she said quite a few things. Nothing that wasn't answerable with shrugs and facial expressions though, so no call to break my resolve. I've said before, about how easy silence has gotten to be. She said things like, "What do you plan to do today?" and "Aren't you even reading anything interesting?" She said things like, "How do you expect to get along in September if you can't even bring yourself to say hello to people?"

Oh, I bet I'd get by. She wouldn't know; she's never tried this. It's entirely possible. This is the sixteenth day and that was with no preparation and no real enthusiasm for the pursuit. After all, I was only ever doing this to make a point. I think we've gone past that now, but nevertheless… I think she'd be surprised at how I'm getting along so far.

But aside from questions like that she just sighed a lot. Somebody had better free me soon, though. It gets easier by the day, so they'd better.

_July 16__th__ 1998_

Seventeen days. Maybe I've lost my mind. It feels like I might have. Somewhere along the way and I just didn't notice, because all my talking was going on in my head, so my mind was just able to slip out the back door, as it were. That could be what's happened. That could be why it's not even annoying me anymore. Alright, so nobody cares that I'm not speaking or that there might be something wrong which has led to that. Alright. Fine. And to feel like that, you really must have lost your mind, isn't that right?

I must have, because I keep daydreaming about people walking in, nobody in particular, not usually anybody I know, and asking the bloody question just to end it. I should be careful of them; they're not real and I know that, but if they trick me for a second it could make a mess of the whole thing after all this time.

You can't look at all these days and tell me I'm still sane. My head is emptying. All the things I used to want to say are gone, and have been replaced with things I've said before, and things I've heard, and lines out of songs, and nothing of my own anymore. Don't tell I'm still sane. I can't be.

_July 17__th__ 1998_

The letter arrived from Cambridge about halls and that's all sorted. Mother made a big deal of it with Alina. Who knows, by the way, she absolutely knows that was all my fault. But if she's anything like any other maid, she won't be here when, _if_ I come back to Christmas, so… Well, let's just say there's no point getting upset.

Other than that, nothing much has happened. Except that I find myself dogging Mother. Not much, not noticeably, but it must be the first time in weeks we've been on the same floor of the house for most of the day. I'm just sick of feeling so put aside, so out of it, and I want it to be over. Damn it, that's all it is, I want it to be over. And I can't just…

No. To hell with it. I can. I can finish it because nobody else cares and I can't go on with it anymore.

Mother is in the living room, reading. I walk in, wait for her to look up. Then, "I haven't said a _word_ in eighteen days!"

"Yes," she says, as though it were basic, as if I've been ticking them off on the calendar for everybody to count. With a confused attempt at a smile, "And now are you feeling better?"


End file.
